


Held Hostage in My Head

by tosca1390



Series: At the Turn of the Tide [2]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A part of her wanted him to stay, to order a pizza and put in a weird American movie she would not understand—but that part wasn’t strong enough to override her fears of being hurt, the broken pieces she was still trying to piece together.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Held Hostage in My Head

*

How _anyone_ got a green card in the United States, Ziva wasn’t sure. 

“Is it supposed to be so complicated?” she asked, sitting in her new living room with Abby. From outside, she heard Tony and McGee snipping at each other about the best orientation for bringing in her TV, and Gibbs harping on them to get a move on. Sunlight filtered into the room through airy white curtains, reflecting the dust brought in from the moving boxes.

Abby snorted. “Of course. It’s the United States government.”

“But I have worked in your government for four years now. They know this, correct?” Ziva said, peering at the tiny type as she spread the papers over her coffee table—wood, this time.

“They will when you turn it in!” Abby said cheerfully, drumming her black nails against her knees. “We’ll walk you through it, don’t worry.”

Ziva pulled her hair off her neck, elastic snapping comfortingly as she fixed it back into a ponytail. “I am not worried. It just seems entirely too annoying.”

Grinning, Abby hopped up. “That’s bureaucracy for you. I’m gonna go make sure the boys don’t kill each other. Don’t fill anything out without me!” she ordered with a bright nod before heading out the front door, her Converses squeaking on the new hardwood floor.

Smiling faintly, Ziva breathed in the muggy August air and stretched. A phantom ache still remained in her ribs from time to time, but today she felt better than she had in months. After two months of living in Gibbs’ house and going crazy with nothing to do, she was moving into her new apartment in Georgetown. The cast was off her hand, her physical therapy was going well, she had been cleared for desk work, and she felt at least somewhat back to normal.

Grunts and curses filtered down the hallway, and she stood just in time to watch Tony and McGee inch themselves through her front door, both red in the face as they lugged in her new TV. She thought about helping—but the looks on their faces were just too priceless to ruin.

“Use your knees,” Abby piped up from behind them.

“Thanks, Abs,” Tony grunted, leading the way.

McGee’s head poked up from behind the TV. “Where do you want it, Ziva?” he said through pointed breaths. 

Biting her lips on a smile, she nodded towards the wall opposite the couch. They grumbled their way over, while Abby brought up the rear. 

“Gibbs has the last box—the one with all the _guns_ ,” she said in a low voice as the boys shift the TV into position. “Seriously, you could arm a coup with all those guns, Ziva.”

McGee flexed his hands. “If there’s ever another civil war, I’m coming here first.”

“Better safe than dead,” Ziva said lightly.

“Sorry,” Tony said as he straightened up, arms stretched over his head. “Better safe than _sorry_.”

“Why would you be sorry? Apologies seem unnecessary and useless in a situation that requires guns,” she retorted, trying not to smirk.

Watching her for a moment, Tony narrowed his eyes. “Sometimes I think you say these things wrong on purpose.”

“Thinking, Tony? Look at you, climbing the evolutionary ladder,” she teased back. 

His lips twitched. “I help you pick out a TV, and this is the thanks I get,” he opined dramatically.

“And that’s about all you did, DiNozzo,” Gibbs said from the doorway, face appearing over a large plastic bin. “How ‘bout making yourself useful?”

Ziva turned away with a smile, moving into the spotless, shiny kitchen as Tony mumbled something under his breath while taking the box from Gibbs. “Thank you, Gibbs,” she said quietly as he joined her. She wished she could say more, for all the kindness he had shown to her—but there were no adequate words in any of the nine languages she knew.

A brief smile crossed Gibbs’ face. “Be on time Monday,” he merely said, patting her shoulder briefly before turning back to the door. “Want a ride, Abs?”

Abby grinned. “Taken care of, Gibbs.”

He nodded, and with a final look to Ziva, he headed out the door. 

“I put the guns in the bedroom,” Tony said as he strolls back into the living room. “Figure that’s where spies like to keep them,” he added, leaning his weight against the counter between the living room and kitchen, a smirk curving his mouth.

It was a harmless jibe, she knew, but the thought of him just _assuming_ she wanted them there bothered her. She narrowed her eyes, an odd rankling crawling up her spine. “I do not see why,” she said stiffly. 

His face fell, and he immediately straightened, looking around the room. The ease of the earlier exchange slipped away, replaced with the awkward tension that now usually accompanied her moments with Tony. She didn’t know how to navigate their uneasy peace. Ever since the day in the lab, it was half-teasing, half-defending with them; she never knew where she stood.

Abby, looking between the both of them, coughed. “You want to do the green card stuff today?” she asked hesitantly. 

Sighing softly, Ziva met her worried gaze. “No. I am a little tired,” she replied, forcing a smile.

Abby nodded. “Understood! It’s been a busy day, so we’ll get out of your hair,” she said resolutely. “McGee! Take me home!”

The save is something Abby had become adept at when it came to Ziva and Tony being in the same room; it made Ziva not want to leave home without her, and she smiled her thanks as McGee shuffled forward. He grumbled good-naturedly all the way out the door, Abby calling cheerful goodbyes all the way down the hall. 

This left Tony moving towards the door, an odd, distant look to his eyes. 

“Didn’t mean to mess with you,” he said finally, leaning against the frame. 

She shrugged uncomfortably. “It is fine. I overreacted,” she conceded; her chest was tight, as if she was holding her breath.

He shifted on his feet. “Guess we’ll see you Monday, then.”

A part of her wanted him to stay, to order a pizza and put in a weird American movie she would not understand—but that part wasn’t strong enough to override her fears of being hurt, the broken pieces she was still trying to piece together.

“Yes, you will,” she said instead, giving him a faint smile. “Thank you for your help today.”

In his grin, she saw glimpses of the old Tony. “You owe me a pizza, let’s leave it at that,” he teased, nodding at her and heading down the hall. 

Though she wanted to, she didn’t watch him walk away. 

That first weekend, she didn’t sleep much. She spent most of the time putting clothes and dishes away, finding nooks and crannies to hide her weapons in, hanging photos Ducky had printed and framed for her to replace her old ones lost in the explosion. It was the first time she was alone for long stretches of time since before the incident in Somalia, and it unnerved her. 

That’s why she dozed off in the living room most of the nights, the TV on as a low comfort. At least once a night, she reached for her phone to call Tony, but always stopped herself. It wasn’t that easy, not for her. Not for them.

*

At eight in the morning on Monday, she parked her Mini and headed into NCIS headquarters, and she could not help the smile on her face. It was a mystery to her how Gibbs managed to convince both Vance and her father to keep her on, but he did.

Her father still had not called her. She did not mind.

Her desk was clean and untouched, free of dust; _it must be thanks to Abby_ , she thought as she set her bag down and sat in her chair. 

“You look good over there.”

She glanced up, watching as Tony strolled in, a cup of coffee in each hand. “I did put a little effort in this morning. I am glad you noticed,” she teased, her good mood unlimited.

Taken aback for a moment, he blinked at her. She liked the startled look in his eyes. “I meant at your desk, but _you_ —you look good, too,” he said finally, handing her a cup. 

She lifted the lid of the cup and sniffed; black, just how she liked it. “Do we have a case?” she asked, taking a sip. 

He settled across from her, eyes fixed on her. “No, not yet. You’re only on the desk anyway,” he said, that odd look back behind his eyes. 

“Just checking if I needed to be doing any research,” she said, opening up her desk drawer and smiling. A whole new pack of her favorite brand of pens sat there, waiting for her. She pulled them out and opened them, slipping one out.

He cleared his throat. “They’re the right kind, yeah?” he asked, an unfamiliar tentativeness to his voice.

Looking up in surprise, she nodded. “Yes. Thank you,” she said after a moment.

He looked down at his desk with a wide, toothy grin. Something fluttered deep in her stomach, something she could not identify; she fingered the pens lightly.

“How’s the new place?” he asked after a few minutes of easy silence. 

She thought of the empty rooms, the cool wood floors, the lack of movies, the empty refrigerator, and sighed. “It is nice,” she said after a moment. “But I am unused to being alone.”

He snorted. “Gibbs must have been a hell of a roommate.” 

She shrugged. “We left each other alone for the most part. He was quite easy to live with.”

“Did he have lady-friends over?” he asked with a leer, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Did _who_ have lady-friends over, DiNozzo?”

She didn’t bother to stifle her low chuckle as Gibbs strolled by. Tony sat open-mouthed for a moment before shaking his head. “No one, Boss,” he said sheepishly. 

It felt right to be there, especially after McGee rolled in with a wide smile and a cherry Danish for her. It didn’t matter that she could not go when they got a call, or that she left before they returned to go to her physical therapy appointment, because while she was there, nothing had changed. It was like she never left, and that was all she wanted. 

*

Ziva’s first week back in the office was deadly slow. On Thursday, she picked apart a blueberry muffin as McGee typed away on his keyboard, brow furrowed deeply in concentration, and Tony played a riveting game of Solitaire. Gibbs was up in Vance’s office, and had been the whole morning, and she did not like that at all. 

“Gonna eat that anytime soon, Ziva?” Tony asked, flipping over a card and grimacing. 

She shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Can I have it?” he asked, brows waggling. 

“No,” she said shortly, smirking slightly at the crestfallen look on his face. 

He made a face at her, leaning back in his chair. “You’re a cruel woman, David,” he muttered, eyes traveling over his cards.

Rolling her eyes, she popped a piece of muffin into her mouth. “How am I cruel? It is my muffin.”

“You’ve been teasing me with it,” he said as he shuffles the cards once more. 

She smiled slowly, licking her blue-stained fingers. “Are you hot and bothered, Tony?” 

His lips pursed together, and he cleared his throat. “I see you’ve learned that one.”

Chuckling, she ate another piece heavy on blueberries, eyes straying to McGee, who just looked pained. “What are you working on, McGee?” she called over to him. 

McGee jumped in his chair, eyes wide. “Uh—nothing. Just getting ahead,” he stammered.

She frowned, tilting her head. “We have nothing to get ahead on,” she said curiously.

McGee’s gaze flitted to Tony and then back to her, and immediately her curiosity was peaked. “It’s just some incident reports I haven’t finished yet,” he said lamely. 

McGee was always the first one done with his reports—she and Tony spent hours grousing about it over the last four years—so she did not believe that either. “Anything you need assistance with?” she asked after a moment. 

He shook his head, licking his lips. “Nah, I’m good,” he murmured before turning back to his monitor. 

She looked at Tony; his face was unreadable. She wanted to take him into the elevator and needle him until he talked, but the appearance of Michael Bashan coming down the stairs with Gibbs startled the thought right out of her. McGee’s fingers stilled on the keyboard, and Tony sat up ramrod straight in his chair, eyes focused on Bashan like darts.

“Ziva, got a minute?” Gibbs asked as he circled around her to his desk. “Need you to escort Officer Bashan out.”

Clenching her jaw, she nodded and got up. Bashan waited at the cusp of their pit, smiling slightly. “It is good to see you, Officer David,” he said. 

“And you,” she replied stiffly. They walked to the elevators in silence; she could feel Tony’s eyes burning into her back. 

The silence remained until they were inside the elevator. She pressed the button for the lobby, and when they began to move, he reached over and pulled the Emergency Stop. Her insides did a nervous little jig, but she remained silent, leaning against the cool steel wall as the blue lights flicker on, casting odd shadows against his tan face. 

“You did not return to Israel,” Bashan said finally, eyes dark and narrow. 

She huffed quietly. “I did not wish to.”

“You also did not file a report,” he continued. 

Anger thrummed at the tips of her fingers, but she breathed evenly; _he was just doing his job_. “I was in the hospital for two weeks, and have been recuperating from torture,” she said coolly. “I have not had time to think about what went wrong during the suicide mission my father sent me on.”

He rolled his shoulders, clasping his hands in front of him. “Agent DiNozzo filed a report on the rescue,” he said calmly. “He said all were killed when they recovered you. We have reason to believe the leader escaped.”

“They shot him in front of me,” she retorted. “They shot him before he shot me. Your intel is wrong. Perhaps your mole is feeding you the wrong information.”

“There is no mole in Mossad, Ziva,” he said; his voice was still cool, but she could see the muscles in his jaw working tightly. 

She laughed harshly, the sound a tinny echo in the elevator. “Then how did they know I would be leading the team? It was not a coincidence, the questions were specific to me and my work here!”

Michael slammed his hand against the steel; it rattled around her, but she did not jump. “I did not come here to argue,” he said gruffly. 

“Then why are you here? I am not going back to Israel,” she said sharply, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“I came on behalf of your father. He regrets it came to this.”

Bile boiled in her stomach, and she shook her head. “He regrets I did not complete the mission, Michael. I am not a child anymore, and I am not his assassin. I have a life here, and I want to keep it,” she said stonily. 

Michael looked her over carefully. “I hope it is worth it,” he said finally.

She turned and pushed the Emergency Stop once more; the elevator hummed to life as the lights flickered on. “It is,” she said, voice thick; and it was the truest thing she’s said in a very long time.

After a tense moment, he touched her elbow gently. “I am glad to see you well,” he said in their native Hebrew.

She looked straight ahead, nodding slightly. “ _Todah_ ,” she murmured.

They bade each other a courteous goodbye at the elevator doors, and she pressed the button up to the squad floor with a sigh of relief. 

She heard McGee’s voice as she walked past the partitions slowly; he said Bashan’s name, and she stopped to listen, holding her breath.

“I’m looking over the intel, and Bashan might be right; Abby did voice recognition on the men we killed, from the recorder I was wearing, and none of them matched the voice of the man on Ziva’s tape,” McGee said, voice hushed. 

“They could have altered the voice, it’s got to be a mistake,” Tony said fiercely. 

“Or, that bastard’s still out there, running an op,” Gibbs interjected tiredly. 

“And the op’s on us,” McGee finished, sounding exhausted. 

“And on Ziva,” Tony muttered. 

Taking a few steps back, she took a deep breath before picking up her steps and rounding the partitions. “Why was Bashan here, Gibbs?” she asked as she perched herself on the edge of her desk

Gibbs raised a brow. “He had a meeting with Vance on some intel. I sat in. Nothing important.”

McGee couldn’t meet her eyes. She wanted to crawl out of her skin, or yell at all three of them for their misguided attempts to protect her. “Well, he told me Mossad thinks the man who interrogated me is still alive,” she said bluntly. “But they were not there. You got him.”

Shaking his head slightly, Gibbs leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee. His face never flinched. “You’d know.”

She glanced at Tony, who looked at her with that odd, guarded gaze. Sighing silently, she picked up the napkin her muffin lay in chunks on, and carried it over to him. “Have it,” she said softly, setting it down over his cards. 

He cracked a smile. “Not hungry?”

She shook her head. “I do not want to tease you anymore,” she said lightly, turning away with a smile.

When she sat down and looked at him, he was eating it with his trademark wide smile, the blueberry staining his mouth. He was forcing his cheer, she was forcing hers, but at least she could pretend everything was still the same.

*

She was back in the office for nearly two weeks when she found it in Tony’s desk. 

Gibbs, Tony, and McGee were at a crime scene in Maryland; she was supposed to be doing a background check on the dead Petty Officer’s family, and she was bored. She was looking for Tony’s pack of playing cards when she opened up his desk drawer and spied it. It was a small black cassette tape, labeled for Tony specifically; the shaky scrawl reminded her of her time first learning English, and immediately she knew what this was: the tape Akil made of her in Somalia.

Mouth going dry, she sat in Tony’s chair heavily. 

It was addressed to _Tony_ , not just NCIS. 

She did not want to watch it, but she knew she had to. 

Forgetting the cards, she pocketed the tape and slowly moved back to her desk, a phantom ache spreading across her ribs. By the time they return, she was done with the reports and had them ready on the plasma; she could not look at Tony, and she could tell they all knew something was wrong. McGee tried to talk to her during lunch, when it was just the two of them, but she was cold and mute, slipping back into the patterns of before. Gibbs, of course, said nothing; but, from the way he glanced at her more often than usual, he did not have to.

When she left for the day, Tony caught up by the elevator. “Something wrong?” he asked under his breath as she waited. His hand hovered close to the small of her back, grazing the denim of her jeans.

“I am fine,” she said evenly, punching the button once more. 

“Is it your hand? I could drive you home—“

She crunched her eyes shut for a moment. He needed to leave her _alone_ ; she could not bear to be that close with the tape practically burning a whole in her coat pocket. “Tony, stop it! You are not my brother or my father _or_ my boyfriend, I do not need you checking up on me constantly,” she hissed, head bowed.

His silence spoke painfully. He took a step back from her. “Sorry,” he said coldly.

She wanted to crumple to the ground, watching as months of tentative progress between them were erased. But she didn’t. The elevator doors opened and she stepped in without a word, not turning back around until the doors slid shut.

She borrowed a camcorder from Abby, who explained how to hook it up to her TV. She made up an excuse about home movies she found in an old box during the move, which Abby squealed over, wondering what a little Ziva was like; it only served to remind her of a lack of _real_ home movies from her past. 

Even in the comfort and safety of her apartment, it still took her an hour to press play. Tony called her three times; she didn’t pick up, and he didn’t leave a message.

The quality of the tape was rough, but that hardly mattered; she could be plainly seen, bound to the chair, half of her face swollen. Her captors never showed their faces, but Akil’s voice rings in the room as if he was with her right there; she shudders, flexing the fingers they broke as he asked her questions.

_“Tell me of DiNozzo. You do not think it will upset him to see this? To see you suffer because of him?”_

_“It is not because of him.”_

_“But it will upset him. And your stubbornness is responsible for that.”_

The tape was short, at about ten minutes. Just enough time to show her at her weakest: crying, bleeding, screaming. She could not imagine how Tony, Gibbs, and McGee watched this, and she did not understand why Tony would keep it. Just watching it herself, she was ashamed of herself for being so weak, so easily broken; she could not imagine trusting herself out in the field again, to cover someone’s six.

She did not sleep that night; every time she shut her eyes, she saw herself in that chair, helpless and useless. She felt fingers on her neck, choking the air from her, and she spent the whole night trying to remember the last few moments of her capture, whether Akil was really dead or not. She did not want to face the team in the morning.

But, she did. She got in very early, replaced the tape in Tony’s desk, returned the camcorder, and was intent on research by the time the rest of them came in. Tony did not say hello; her heart rattled painfully against her ribs.

*

A few days later, she came out of the elevator returning from a check-up. Gibbs waited right outside the doors for her, causally sipping his third cup of coffee. 

“PT going well?” he asked, glancing at her hand. 

She flexed her fingers habitually, hand curving over her bag’s shoulder strap. “Yes, thanks. Is something wrong?”

“You tell me, Ziva,” he said lightly, gaze pointed. 

Flushing, she clenched her jaw. “I am sorry if I have not been at my best this week,” she said flatly. “Desk work was never my specialty.”

He raised a brow. “That isn’t what I meant.”

From afar, she heard Tony and McGee chuckling. “I saw the tape,” she said finally, unable to meet his eyes. 

For a moment, the only sound between them was the hum of the vent. The air was chilly; goosebumps rose on her bare arms, and she clenched her fists in frustration. 

“We don’t think less of you,” Gibbs said gently, his hand settling on her shoulder for a moment.

Inhaling sharply, she raised her face to meet his gaze. “They addressed it to him directly,” she said, voice thin. 

His face darkened. “Yeah. He’s okay, though.”

That was not the answer she wanted. She wanted to know _why_. 

“We got ‘em, Ziver. You don’t have to worry,” he said after another pause, before he squeezed her shoulder briefly and walked back to the pit, barking orders. She stood there for a moment more, knuckles white, before she shook it off, and went to her desk cool as a zucchini—except that didn’t sound right. 

She wanted to ask Tony, but he did not meet her eyes. She did not blame him.

*

A week later, she sat alone in her silent living room, looking over her right hand carefully. It was early September, and the trees around her apartment were showing signs of autumn, though the humid summer heat remained. Her firearms proficiency test was tomorrow afternoon; after she passed, she would be back to field agent status. Her right hand was her favored hand; it was also the one with the mangled fingers. 

Her thumb was the worst; it would not bend all the way anymore, though it was at 85 percent motility, which was better than expected. She passed light fingertips over the deep, thick scars, biting her lip. Everyone seemed sure she will be just fine, but she could not escape the nagging doubts in the back of her head. Usually, she would call Tony, to have him assure her, but they had not spoken but for niceties and casework.

A breeze circled through the room, it lifted her thick curls from her shoulders, ruffled the magazines and papers on her coffee table. She curled her toes against the cool hardwood floor, shutting her eyes. 

The knock on her heavy, double-bolted front door startled her. “Ziva?”

A shiver ran down her spine at Tony’s voice through the door. Hesitating only for a moment, she padded over and opened the door, eyebrow raised. 

He stood at her door, a pizza box in one hand, a six-pack of beer in the other, and a couple of movies under his chin. He looked every inch the confident man she knew, but there was a skittish, odd tint to his gaze, as if he wasn’t sure whether she’d kill him for being there or not. 

“Hey,” he said after a moment, mouth tight and serious. “I was in the neighborhood.”

It was a lie, but she did not question it. She moved aside. “Come in.”

After locking the door, she found him already in the living room, sitting stiffly on the couch. His hands clenched into fists on his thighs; the pizza sat on the coffee table, steam still rising from the box. 

“You are not comfortable?” she asked as she walked around him to the other side of the couch, curling up in the corner. 

He chuckled uneasily. “No, I am. Just… it’s different.”

She leaned her head against the cushion, watching him carefully. “It is a new apartment.”

“Yeah. It’ll take me some getting used to, I guess,” he said. 

Biting the inside of her cheek, she propped her cheek on her hand. “You can relax, Tony,” she said quietly. He never used to have qualms about stretching out, propping his feet on her coffee table—but things were different. 

He glanced at her, brow furrowed. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or should I put in a movie?” he asked. 

Skin hot, she looked away. “What movie?” she said as she leaned forward to open the pizza box. It was half pepperoni and sausage, half mushroom and green peppers: their favorite combination. 

“ _Sabrina_ , the 1995 remake,” he said, getting up to turn on the TV and DVD player. 

Raising an eyebrow, she got up and went into the kitchen to get paper plates and a bottle opener. “Why would you remake a movie?”

He shot her a look. “Now I remember what watching movies with you feels like.”

“And what is that?” she asked lightly, sitting back down and pulling pieces of pizza apart. 

“A game of Twenty Questions,” he teased, handing her a beer and sitting down.

Smiling faintly, she handed him a plate of pizza and curled back in her corner of the couch. Halfway through the movie, he stretched his legs out onto the coffee table, and by the end, she was closer to the middle of the couch, and his arm was curved over the back, close to her shoulders. 

“I do not understand _why_ she would like that David man in the first place,” she said as the credits rolled. “He was trite and obviously uninterested in anything permanent.”

“That’s the point, Zee-vah,” he said, his head bowed close to hers. It was the first time he had used the nickname since her return. “You want to root for Linus.”

“But he was too old for her.” she said, turning her head towards his. His eyes were very close, his warm breath against her cheek.

His arm shifted behind her, she thought she felt the curl of his fingers against her hair. “Harrison Ford isn’t too old for anyone. Besides, in the original, it was Humphrey Bogart, and _that_ was much weirder,” he commented, wrinkling his nose. 

Three pieces of pizza remain in the box, along with five empty beer bottles. It was the most she had eaten in months, and she felt quite full, but content. “Bogart was in _Casablanca_ ; you made me watch that. Who was his Sabrina?”

“Audrey Hepburn. She looked twelve years old next to him.”

She snorted. “I can believe that. Still, it was a good film. I liked it.”

He grinned; there was a spot of tomato sauce at the corner of his lips. “I’m glad. It’s a classic.”

Despite the unfamiliar apartment, despite the years between times, she could not escape the feeling that they found their way back to that summer three years ago, when it was movies and dinner every week, and easy conversation. She could pretend that she hadn’t been broken, and that he hadn’t seen her tortured for information, and that Jeanne never happened, and Michael was still alive but far away in Israel—

“You found the tape.”

His words cut through her illusionary fog; breath caught in her throat, she sat back against the couch, away from him. _Gibbs would not have told him, would he?_ “How did—“

Shrugging, he gave her a brittle smile. “I check to make sure it’s there every night before I leave. And Abby said you borrowed a camcorder. I put it together. I’m a crack investigator, you know,” he said with forced levity.

She looked away, unable to face him. “I needed to see it,” she said quietly.

“You didn’t need to be mean to me,” he retorted.

He was right, but she didn’t know how else to be. Her right hand lay dormant in her lap, the thumb crooked. “They addressed it to you,” she said finally, meeting his eyes. 

Lips pursed tightly, he nodded. “Yeah. Not on my top-ten list for repeat viewings,” he said shortly. 

She shook her head. “But why you?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed with a hard swallow. “They knew who you were close to, obviously. They must have been profiling you. And we all know what an important part of your life I am,” he said, voice strained, even as he tried to smile.

Something rattled in the back of her brain, but she ignored it. “Why did you keep it?” she asked, stomach turning on itself.

He sat back, staring at the now-dark TV screen. “It reminds me of how much we have to lose,” he said slowly after a long moment

Her tongue was thick and immovable in her mouth; she didn’t know what to say. 

“I didn’t mean for you to ever find it,” he continued, voice low and aching in the dim light. The moonlight cast odd shadows along the planes of his face. “I want to burn it.”

For a long moment, she could not breathe, because how could she not _see_ this, right in front of her?

“I hope… I hope it does not change your opinion of me as a partner,” she said finally, retreating to the safety of work. “I was not as strong as I wanted—“

Tony grasped her crippled hand between his own; it was the most purposeful physical contact they’ve had in months, other than accidental grazes in the elevator and shoulder nudges in the office. “Damnit, Ziva, it isn’t about that! No one thinks any less of you—We— _I’m_ just worried,” he said fiercely. 

His fingers slid over the knotted scars gently; she shivered. Cool air drifted in, smelling of leaves and late-blooming flowers, but the streets were quiet. “I was cruel, last week,” she said at last, curling her fingers against his. His skin was dry and warm against hers, and felt better than she thought it should. “I am sorry, Tony.”

A half-smile curled his mouth. “You’re busy getting back to your ninja-best. I knew it’d be rough. I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

She almost wished he wasn’t so understanding and gentle, that he fought back more—then she would feel like everything could be the same once more. But everything was not the same, and she wanted to figure it all out ahead of the curve, so she was ready for what comes next, but the game had changed. 

“I was unprepared for all this,” she said abruptly, breaking the tenuous silence. 

He slowly slid his hands from hers, letting it drop back to her knee; her heart ached faintly at the loss. “I don’t think anyone’s prepared for torture,” he said, a forced lightness in his voice. “Not even a sterling agent such as myself.”

With a half-laugh, half-sigh, she tucked her knees under her, sinking into the couch cushions. “Not that. I mean the past year,” she said wearily. “Being sent back to Israel, then coming back, expecting things to be the same. Everything was so much harder, after.”

“Why?” he asked quietly, voice low. 

She leaned back, wrapping her arms around herself. “Rekindling that thing with Michael was not a good idea,” she said finally, ribs tightening in her chest. “I do not know why I did it, except it was easy. And I have never been easy.”

He tried and failed to cover a snort. “Not the first word to come to mind, no,” he said with a smirk. 

She shoved his shoulder with her own, glaring. “I am _trying_ to talk to you, like you have requested,” she said sharply. 

He held up his hands. “You’re right. My bad.”

Rolling her eyes, she chewed on the inside of her lip. “I let myself be swayed by emotion, and it cost people their lives. I cannot let that happen again.”

Her pulse beat fast in her neck; she held her breath as he watched her, face growing serious. “Defending Michael wasn’t bad, Ziva,” he says. “You didn’t know—“

“I should have,” she retorted, getting to her feet. She cannot sit there anymore, pretending everything is as it should be— “I should have known. And perhaps all this would not have happened, and we would not alternate between getting along and wanting to kill each other, and I would not be sitting in a new apartment wondering whether I can still fire a gun well enough to keep my job, and be unable to sleep because I think the man who tortured me got away!”

Her voice was strained in the air; she had not talked so much at one time in months. She felt rubbed raw and sprinkled with salt as he looked at her. Standing still was impossible, so she paced back and forth from window to bookcase-covered wall, arms crossed tightly over her chest as protection. 

The silence went on a beat too long; she finally stopped mid-step and looked at him. “Are you going to reply?” she asked testily.

Tilting his head, he leaned back in the couch cushions. “First of all, we’ve always alternated between being best friends and wanting to kill each other. Secondly, you know you’ll pass your test. Thirdly, he didn’t get away. I killed him. Lastly, you know that I know it’s better to wait until you’ve stopped moving to talk any sense into you. You like to throw things,” he said calmly, crossing his ankles on the coffee table. 

She planted her hands on her hips, glaring. “ _You_ killed him?”

“Despite the sling, I was still a good shot,” he said, voice low. “Bastard didn’t stand a chance.”

She rolled her eyes, looking out the window into the clear, starry night. “Something still does not feel right with this,” she said finally.

“Never took you for a conspiracy theorist,” he said lightly. At her look, he sobered. “Tomorrow at the office, we can look at all the reports, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Fine, Mr. Smarty-Socks,” she muttered, going back to the couch and slumping into the cushions.

“Mr. Smarty-Pants, actually,” he said with a grin. 

This, this is why she always went to him. Somehow, he knew just how to grapple her off the ledge. Her instincts always said to call Tony; she was not sure why she suppressed them. “I am your best friend?” she asked after a moment, voice gentle.

Licking his lips, he shifted in his seat. “Well, yeah,” he said, looking uncomfortable.

She gave him a faint smile, patting his knee. “You were mine, as well,” she said, a pang resonating deep in her chest at the past tense. 

His face fell. “Were? Not are?” he asked, brow furrowed.

As much as she wanted to say _are_ , she was not quite there yet. The bricks had been laid, but they were not steady and set. “I told you. It takes me time,” she said gently. “But I will get there again.”

Soon after, he left with a kiss on her cheek and the movies. She put the pizza and one remaining beer in her fridge and fell asleep quickly for the first time in months, Tony drifting in and out of her unconscious. 

She was not ready for present tense yet, but the heated, possessive look in his eyes made her want to get there faster.

*


End file.
